JiminQueens2's blog

Every Thursday night, from seven o’clock until ten o’clock, Mom has choir practice at her church. And every Thursday night, Dad invites me over for some “father-son bonding time”. And nothing short of a natural disaster keeps me from “father-son bonding time”. Dad and I have dinner, prepared by Mom ahead of time and left in the oven for us to warm up. We have a couple of beers. We talk about how early retirement is treating him, how my job is kicking my ass, that sort of thing. We grouse about how shitty the local ball teams are playing these days and how overpaid the new kid is.

But after we’ve cleaned up, Dad always says, “Why don’t we head out back?”

And I always respond, “Sure.” I try not to sound too eager, but our sessions out back are why I look forward to “father-son bonding time”.

We head out the back door and across the yard to the shed Dad built all those years ago. Normally, a “trip to the woodshed” is something every kid dreads, but not me. Dad didn’t built it as a place to punish me. He built it as a place to teach me.

Dad unlocks the door and we step inside. He flicks on the light and the place is just as I remember. The barbells, plates, and dumbbells. The pullup bars and cable machine. The heavy bag and the speed bag. The fifteen-foot-square wrestling mat, freshly washed and gleaming in the light.

Dad started teaching me how to use my fists and how to handle myself on the ground when I was six. Every day for an hour, he’d teach me a new combination or a new move or a new hold, and we’d spar or wrestle until I’d started to get the hang of it. He was the best teacher I ever had, and I’m not just saying that because I’m his son. He was patient but relentless, and he made sure I learned what I needed to know to win.

We start stripping down to our underwear – Dad usually wears boxers, but on nights like this he goes with tight briefs. Dad is closer to fifty than forty, but his hair is still thick and mostly dark, with a few gray hairs peeking out here and there. His muscles are still firm and taut, with just the barest hint of a paunch. He keeps his chest hair trimmed close so that it looks more like a breastplate than a bushy mass. On his left shoulder is the tattoo he got when I was born. Just my name.

I’m built like him – thick-bodied, muscular, not quite as big but I know I’ll get there. Sixteen years of lifting weights – Dad wouldn’t let me start on those until I started middle school – have given me more than my share of muscles. When I look in a mirror, I see Dad’s square jaw, high cheekbones, ice-blue eyes.

“Just light sub tonight, I’m a little tired,” Dad says. I don’t believe it for a second. Dad has the stamina of a man half his age, as I ought to know, since he takes it out on me every week. I nod in assent as, barefoot and in our underwear, we step onto opposite sides of the mat.